Remember Me
by Rainack
Summary: Nick reminisces about the times Greg has said those two words.  Eventual character death.  Nick/Greg slash.  Pure and utter smut throughout.  Please, read and review.
1. Chapter 1: Remember Me?

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI, or any of its characters. I just like to play with them! Especially Nick and Greg!

A/N: I thought I'd try first person point of view with this one. I think it works. Let me know what you think.

Remember Me

Chapter 1

Remember Me?

"Remember me?"

The first time I hear those two words, their in the form of a question.

I was sitting at the table in the break room, trying to choke down a cup of the motor oil we call coffee around here, hoping the caffeine will keep me awake through the rest of the double I'm pulling.

Looking up from my coffee mug, my eyes meet the liquid brown eyes of an angel.

"Uh, Greg, right?" Smooth, Nicky! Really smooth! I think to myself. "You interviewed for the graveyard shift DNA tech position."

You smile so big it threatens to crack your face in half. "Yeah, that's me!"

I stare dumbly at the hand you've extended to me for a moment, before I grasp that I'm supposed to shake it.

Your palm is warm and dry, your grip firm but not crushing.

"I'm Nick Stokes," I say partly for something to say to you, partly because I don't remember if I introduced myself to you when you were here for your interview.

Your eyes have haunted my dreams for the last two weeks. I've fantasized about your body under that crazy Marilyn Manson T-shirt you were wearing, and running my fingers through your spiky dark hair.

I can't believe you got the job, showing up with that shirt and your hair like that. You must have really impressed Brass and the undersheriff with your knowledge and academics.

Knowing I'm probably going to sound like a fool, get shot down, my mouth opens and more words tumble out, "Would you like to go out sometime?" After all, I know the statistics for the number of straight guys to gay guys. The odds aren't in my favor, but, hey, this is Vegas!

Your brown eyes sparkle, and I'm nearly blinded by your smile, as you reply, "I'd love to!"

A week passes. We never actually do... go out, that is. Instead, we end up at my place. The sexual tension that's built between us – through looks, small touches, things we've done and said that others would find totally innocuous – demanding release.

We make it through the door of my apartment, and I barely get the door closed behind us, before you're pushing me up against the wall.

Your mouth, hot and wet, tasting of your expensive coffee that you don't like to share, and a taste that's uniquely you, finds mine. Tongue teasing across my lips, begging admittance.

I'm powerless against you. My knees feel as if they'll buckle at any moment.

My mouth opens and our tongues meet for the first time.

As our tongues explore each other's mouths, your hands pull my shirt out of my jeans. They rove up under my shirt across my abs, up my chest. They're toying with my nipples now.

I groan into your mouth. My jeans have become nearly unbearably tight, and I need to move. Need friction.

My hands wander down from your shoulders, over your back, down to your perfect ass. I cup those cheeks in my hands and pull you roughly forward, as close to me as I can get you.

Our hard ons meet through denim, and you gasp. This cute little hitch, so I rub my throbbing erection against yours, hoping you'll gasp again. You do.

This time, though, you throw your head back, moaning, "Oh... God! Nicky!"

I attack your throat, ghosting my lips across your hot skin, nipping gently, not sure how you'd feel about visible marks.

Looking at me with a glint in your lust filled brown eyes, you say, "Let me show you the proper way to do that."

The way you nip my neck breaks the pleasure-pain barrier, and I know you like to be marked.

I'm suddenly feeling stifled by my clothing, and you seem to realize that, because you're helping me get them off.

Now I'm standing before you, naked, and you've stepped back to admire me, as if I were a sculpture in a museum.

When your gaze gets to my aching member, your tongue darts out over your lips, leaving a glistening film of saliva.

It's so erotic, I nearly come from just watching you look at me.

"Greg..." I begin, but you don't let me finish, because now you're kneeling in front of me.

When your tongue begins gliding over super sensitive flesh, I sag against the wall behind me, as my legs nearly give way. I'm so close to my peak, I'm not sure how much longer I can last.

Just before my head slips into your perfect mouth, you look up at me and murmur, "Don't hold back. Come for me, Nicky!"

Your right hand encircles the base of my cock, and slowly begins to work its way up my length, as you tease my head with your tongue.

You tease my slit with your tongue, then you're sliding more of me into your mouth. Your right hand is pulling gently on me now, encouraging me to move.

A long, low, "Oh..." escapes my mouth, as I slowly begin to thrust into yours. My fingers are tangling into your soft spikes.

As my head hits your throat, you begin to hum, and the vibrations are my undoing. I spurt into your mouth, and you take it all, swallowing, milking me dry, lapping up every last drop.

When you pull away, I slide down the wall, my legs too weak to support my weight anymore.

You straddle my legs, leaning forward so our foreheads touch. We stay that way for a moment.

Moving so your mouth is next to my ear, you whisper, "Shit, Nicky! You taste so good!"

Then your mouth is on mine, sharing my taste with me.

Impossibly, I feel myself twitching, beginning to get hard again.

You laugh, and jump up, pulling me to my feet. "On the bed, this time. Much more comfortable than the floor!"

As we kiss our way to my bedroom, I help you with your little clothing problem.

I push you onto your back on the bed, and now it's my turn to stare at your amazing body. Your golden skin is covered in body hair so fine and light it's more akin to peach fuzz.

Kneeling down between your knees, I admire your hard length, licking my own lips in a mimic of what you had done earlier.

You're getting impatient with me, so you thrust your hips towards me, a frustrated groan escaping your supple lips.

With a suddenly evil grin, I look up at you, and murmur, "You look good enough to eat, G!"

This elicits another groan, followed by, "Fuck! Nick! Do something, or by God, I'll take matters into my own hands!"

Now it's me that's groaning at the mental image your words bring to my mind. "Mmm... Maybe in a minute," I reply, taking a firm hold of the base of your cock, as if I were holding an ice cream cone, or a huge lolly pop.

Starting where my had is holding you in a firm grip, I slide my tongue all the way up to your slit, licking the drops of pre-cum from your tip. I swear, even your come tastes like that ridiculously expensive coffee you drink.

You shiver as I pull away, smacking my lips.

Crawling up the bed, laying with my head propped on my hand, I whisper in your ear, "Take matters into your own hands, G."

You shiver again, your eyes glinting at me hungrily in the dark.

As your hand wraps around your aching length, you moan. Several new drops of pre-cum glisten at the slit, and I lick my lips, but don't move.

You close your eyes as you slowly begin to stroke yourself.

I roll away for a moment, reaching to the drawer of my night stand for the lube and condoms.

Setting the condom package within easy reach, I use the lube on my left index finger.

I know you felt me move on the bed, but you still let out a little mewl when my finger touches your tight entrance.

As I add another finger, I lean down and lick the accumulating pre-cum from the head of your perfect hard on. I then place a reverent kiss just over your slit, before reaching up to kiss you.

As we kiss – your cock jumping in your hand as you encounter your taste on my lips and tongue – I add another finger.

You arch up, a low cry escaping your lips as our kiss breaks.

I pull my fingers out, and rip open the condom wrapper.

The cool latex slides over my impossibly heated length, and I position myself at your entrance.

You sigh as my head penetrates. Your eyes are open again, locked on mine, urging me to push farther in.

The hitch in your breath causes me to pause, but you wrap your toned legs around my waist, pulling me farther in, until I'm buried up tot he hilt in your tight heat.

Your gaze is still locked on mine – lust, and another emotion I can't quite identify, filling your eyes.

I realize you've stopped stroking yourself, so I steady myself with one arm and put my other hand over yours. As I make your hand move again, I begin to move in you, gently pulling out and thrusting back in.

With a sigh, you reach up with your free hand and trail your fingers over my cheek and down my jaw.

I think I see a tear trail down the side of your face, so I ask, "Greg?"

"Please, Nicky! Harder!" is your response, but I know that's not what the tear was all about. I resolve to ask you again when we're through. Now, I speed up my thrusts, coming close to slamming in and out of you.

Now I'm the one saying, "Come for me, G!"

A few more strokes of your hand, and you're spurting over your chest and stomach.

Two more thrusts, and I let out a strangled yell as I fill the condom.

After I pull out of you and discard the condom, I place a gentle kiss on your lips before moving to your chest.

The taste of your pre-cum has left me hungering for more of the taste of you on my tongue again. Besides, if that's the only way I'll ever get to taste your damned coffee, I'll take what I can get. I lick every last drop from your stomach and chest, making you giggle from the feel of my tongue on your flushed and heated flesh.

The after glow of our coupling has left us both languid. Your eyelids are droopy.

"What was that about, earlier?" I ask, pulling you against me, so your back is flush against my chest.

Drowsily, you respond, "Won't last. Wanted to remember. You'll forget me, like all the rest. Take what I can get, though."

I think you fell asleep after that, but I brushed my lips against your delicate ear anyway, and whispered, "I could never forget you, G!"


	2. Chapter 2: The Second Time

Chapter 2

"Remember me!"

The second time I heard these words, we'd been together for two years, and living together for a year.

It was after the explosion at the lab.

God! I will _never_ forget that day.

I outed us to the entire lab with my reaction.

I'd been in the A/V lab with Archie. I don't even remember what we were going over, or even for what case.

Passing by the DNA lab, earlier, I'd seen you – so absorbed in your work, you didn't even have your music on – leaning over one of the machines.

The sound of the explosion and shattering glass brought me flying out of my chair and into the hallway.

You were lying face down on the floor, glass and debris everywhere, and you weren't moving.

I was so scared! I thought I'd lost you!

Not caring about the funny looks I was getting, I raced to your side, shrieking your name.

When I knelt beside you, I was so afraid to touch you, for fear of hurting you worse, if you were still alive. Your back looked like ground hamburger. There was charred skin there, too.

Tears rolling down my cheeks, I gingerly placed my fingers at your neck. My own pulse jumped when I felt yours, weak, but steady.

There had to be a crowd gathered around us, and I know I shrugged off several comforting hands, but I couldn't focus on anything but you.

When the paramedics came in, I had to be dragged away from you. It was only after I'd decked Warrick and he'd slapped me across the face that I finally snapped out of my daze.

"He's gonna be okay, man," Warrick told me. "Come on! I'll drive you to the hospital."

I stared at my hands for most of the journey, afraid to speak.

Warrick finally broke the silence first. "If anyone at the lab tries to give the two of you a hard time, they'll have to go through me!" he started, trying for a light tone.

A small laugh escaped me, and I finally looked up.

"I can't lose him, Warrick," I said, a hitch in my voice at the thought of life without you.

"He's going to be fine! You'll see!" Warrick replied, a confident tone in his voice, even though he couldn't possibly know.

He was right, as usual, though!

Grissom let me take time off to be with you. He told me to take all the time I needed, knowing you'd need help one you got out of the hospital.

Several weeks later, when you were finally released, the doctor stopped in to talk to you before I took you home.

"Here's a list of restrictions. No strenuous activities. The skin on your back is still healing. You don't want to end up back here because you tore it open and got an infection."

"No problem, doctor," you replied lightly, taking the paper from his hands. Your eyes roamed down the list, stopping about halfway down.

A panicked look settled on your face as you looked back up at the doctor. "No sex?" From the doctor, you looked at me. That panicked look morphed into dread, then finally a grim acceptance as you continued to look at me.

Something in my clicks, and I think I finally get it, that reaction you had the first time we had sex.

You think that's the only reason I'm with you, and that now that we can't have sex for a month or two, I'll leave.

I'd never said the words to you. I guess I thought you knew. After all, I asked you to move in with me after the whole Nigel Crane thing. We went apartment hunting together. I wanted it to be truly our place.

I guess you thought I only did it because I couldn't stand to be alone anymore.

I vow to myself to rectify that misconception as soon as I can.

I'm with you, in our home, everyday of the nearly two months it takes your back to heal. I help you bathe, change the dressings on your back, and carefully hold you when you wake from nightmares of the explosion.

I watch as your injuries slowly heal and turn into scars.

They fascinate me. You don't understand why, so I try to explain. This is the same day the doctor has released you to resume normal activities, even sex.

When we get home from the doctor's office, you seem hesitant. Not quite sure what to do with your new found freedom, I guess.

Finally, you speak softly from where you're sitting on the sofa, "How can you still want me? Why are you still here?"

I've been standing behind the sofa, toying with your spiky hair. Your head is leaning back on the couch, and you're looking up at me.

Now, I round the sofa, sitting on the edge, as I gently remove your shirt.

You try to resist as I turn you so I can see your back, the scars, in all their glory.

Trailing a fingertip ever so softly over them, as I can imagine they're still highly tender and sensitive, I say, "These scars tell me you're still alive, G. They're part of who you are. If I want you – and I do! – then I get them, too."

You're trembling now, as I lean forward and brush my lips just as gently across the scars as I had my fingertips.

With a moan of desire, you turn and push me into the couch, kneeling between my legs. Your lips touch mine, your tongue begging entrance, and I comply.

My half hard length becomes a raging hard on as you whisper in my ear, "I need to be in you, Nicky!"

The southern gentleman that I am, I've offered to let you top before, but you've never seemed interested.

Thrusting my hips up into yours, I murmur, "Whatever you want, baby!"

You run your hands up under my shirt, pushing it up my chest. I help you by leaning up and pulling it off.

Attacking my left nipple, you suck it into a hard bud, then nip at it, sending shivers of pleasure-pain through my body.

Now you're pulling at my belt, working on the fly of my jeans.

A moment later, you're moving off of me, so I can pull my jeans and underwear off, while you get rid of your own. Then you root around in a drawer of the coffee table, finally coming up with a tube of lube.

You settle back between my legs, and I take the tube from your shaking hands.

They've shaken to some degree – all depending on your level of stress – nearly nonstop since you woke up in the hospital. The doctor says it'll stop in time. He thinks going back to work will help, that's why he cleared you.

I know you're afraid they'll never stop shaking, but I have faith in you. They'll stop! I think the doctor is right that returning to the lab will help. What can I say, I'm from Texas, grew up around horses. When you fall off, you've got to get right back on again!

Right now, your eyes take on a panicked look, as you think I'm not going to let you top me, so I murmur, "Let me lube you up, G."

After uncapping the lube, I hold your right hand, to steady it, as I lube up your fingers.

Guiding your hand to my entrance, I keep you steady while you push two fingers inside me.

Your hand is steady now, so I let go. We both sigh, and you lean in to kiss me, as your fingers move inside me, reading me. Pleasure radiates through my body in electric waves and I moan.

When you pull back a few moments later, I lube your leaking cock, as eager as you are to feel you in me. We'd stopped using condoms a while back, and I'm glad. I want to feel skin on skin!

Our eyes have barely broken contact this entire time, and I'm pouring all of the love I can out through mine. I'm begging you to look into my soul.

Your head touches my opening, and gently pushes inside. You must see my slight wince, because you pause.

I write under you, trying to push myself farther onto you.

"G! This feels so good, but I want more! I want all of you in me!" I finally say when you still haven't moved.

You blink, and there's that expression again. The one I haven't seen since that first time.

Finally, you push the rest of the way in. As you begin to thrust, you lean in close to my ear and murmur, "Remember me!" It's a plea and a command all rolled up into one.

Getting a hand between us, so it's flat on your chest, I push you up. There's hurt in your eyes, as you think I'm pushing you away, until my hands reach up to cup your cheeks.

I lock my gaze to yours again, determined that you see the sincerity of my words.

"Even if I wanted to, G, I could _never_ forget you." Sealing my fate to yours, I say, "I love you!"

Your eyes widen. It's an expression that at any other time might have been comical.

As you begin to thrust again, you trail a finger over my jaw and lips, a smile spreading across your face.

Right before you lose complete control, you murmur, "I love you, too, Nicky!"

There were a few other times you topped me, each of those times accompanied by your plea, "Remember me!" Each one was after something traumatic happened to you. After you'd recovered from the beating, and after particularly tough cases – especially the one when you found the body of the starved kid in the Rubber Maid container.

And each time, I've responded to your insecurity the only way I know how. "I could _never_ forget you, G!"


	3. Chapter 3: This Time, It was My Fault

Chapter 3

"Remember me!"

There has only ever been one time I've been the direct cause of you saying those two words to me.

It was a few months after I'd been rescued from the box. (You've always refused to call it a coffin, and won't let me, either.)

You were supposed to be working late, a favor for Grissom, I think.

I'd actually gotten off on time, and I had a stop to make before going home. My stop took me a good two hours, and I'd left my phone in the truck. You were supposed to be busy, not home sick.

I didn't check my phone when I climbed in the truck, my purchase safely tucked into my pocket, and I must have left it on silent at some point.

God, I didn't mean to freak you out like that!

You threw the door open nearly the instant you heard my key in the lock.

The look on your face nearly killed me. "Greg?" I asked in confusion and worry.

"I came home sick, and you weren't here. I called... kept getting your voice mail... so worried... Thought something... had happened... Thought you'd finally left," the last was said so quietly, I had to strain to hear you.

I think that if you'd been anyone else, I wouldn't be able to put up with your insecurity. But, you're Greg, crazy haired, ex-lab rat turned CSI, and the man I love!

Tears are flowing down your cheeks, so I pull you into a crushing hug.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to worry you." Now, I'm pulling a small box from my pocket, dropping to one knee in the still open doorway. Stammering, I say, "Th-this isn't exactly how I imagined asking you this, but... Greg Sanders, will you marry me?"

Opening the box, I reveal matching gold bands. They each have several words engraved on them.

Your mouth falls open, and you look from me, to the rings. Then you're throwing your arms around me, screaming, "Yes! Oh, yes!"

Thumping down on my butt on the floor under your weight, I smile and pull you fully onto my lap.

Selecting the correct ring, I slide it onto your ring finger.

While I slide mine into place, you inspect yours. Your right index finger plays over the inscription as you read it.

You look at me questioningly, so I hold out my hand for you to read the inscription on my ring.

"Remember me!" you read aloud from my ring, eliciting my response from your own ring and my heart, "I could _never_ forget you, G!"

Placing my hand to the back of your neck, I pull your lips to mine.

Soon, we're in the bedroom, making slow, tender love. You murmur, "Remember me!" in my ear, and I reply, "I could _never_ forget you, G!"


	4. Chapter 4: The Last Time

Chapter 4

"Remember me!"

The last time I hear those two words are with your final exhalation.

A few months ago, you started getting these headaches. They were occurring too frequently for my peace of mind, and I tried to get you to go to the doctor, but you insisted they were nothing, merely a product of job related stress.

It wasn't until you collapsed one night on the job that I found out that the headaches weren't the only symptom.

Catherine usually didn't put us on scenes together, for obvious reasons, but we'd been short handed, what with Riley leaving.

I'm pretty sure Cath and Ecklie have this unspoken agreement that as long as you and I aren't together on scenes, he'll ignore the fact that we're together. He doesn't want to risk a discrimination suit against the department. I think Grissom threatened to help us file one – after the explosion, when I outed us – if Ecklie tried to split us up.

Ecklie actually did get his way for a while, when he split up the whole team. After the box, though, he grudgingly put the team back together. I don't think he quite gets how our team meshes together.

Anyway, so Cath sent us out to a double homicide in Henderson.

You had been unusually quiet all day. I knew you were having another headache.

"Is it worse than usual?" I asked, reaching across the center console for your hand.

You reached up to massage your temples before placing your hand in mine. "Not really. Just hurts enough to really be annoying," you reply, as I rub the back of your hand with my thumb.

I pull your hand up to my mouth, kissing it tenderly. "I wish I could kiss it and make it better," I say, hoping to bring a smile to your face.

It works. You look over at me, a small smile playing across your features.

At the scene, we talk to Brass, then I go in to talk to Dave while you start dusting for prints.

I snap a few pictures of the victims in their final resting place, then Dave and his assistants take the bodies away. Continuing to snap pictures, I work my way through the house.

When I finish taking pictures, I return to the entrance hall, where I left my kit next to yours. By now, we're the only people here, besides an officer somewhere outside.

You're crouched down by the door jam, and I think you're still dusting for prints. "Hey, Greg, how many CSIs does it take to dust a door jam?" I ask jokingly. You should have been done with that door a while ago.

You don't respond, so I walk up beside you. You're holding the jar of print powder and the brush, and looking back and forth between the two, as if you're not sure what to do.

Kneeling down beside you, a worried frown on my face, I place a hand on your arm. "G?"

Now you look at me, a frightened look on your face.

"Nicky?" your voice is so small and scared, my heart shatters.

"G, what's wrong?" my own voice has taken on a slight quaver.

"I - I was getting ready to do... something... with this stuff... to the door... I - I can't remember. And my head... hurts real bad."

Now you're really scaring me, but I have to keep control, as you're looking close to having a full on panic attack, yourself.

Reaching over, I take the powder jar and brush from your hand and set them back in your kit.

Standing, I pull you gently to your feet with me, as I take my phone off my belt.

I'm calling Catherine, to tell her she's going to have to get someone else out here, when your eyes roll back in your head, and you collapse.

I barely manage to catch you – dropping my phone in the process – and lay you gently on the floor. You're seizing, body spasms uncontrollably. I just manage to get you rolled to your side, so you won't choke if you vomit.

Hearing a tinny, "Nick? You there?" I realize my phone is still on, and Catherine's picked up on the other end.

Shouting to make sure she can hear me, I tell her, "Greg's seizing, get an ambulance out here!"

"I hear you, Nick!" was her tinny response before she hung up to call for an ambulance.

You've stopped seizing be the time the ambulance arrives, but you haven't regained consciousness.

Giving the officer a few quick instructions, I climb in the ambulance with you.

One of the paramedics gives me a look like he's about to tell me I can't ride with you, but the look I shoot him makes him think better of it.

You're so pale! All I can do is cling to your hand and pray like I haven't prayed in years.

At the hospital – God, we both hate hospitals – I'm forced to wait in the waiting room while you're stabilized.

I'm kept busy with paperwork, and providing the Power of Attorney I hold for you.

After our commitment ceremony, you insisted we get Power of Attorney for each other, just in case.

I guess it was an hour later when the doctor came out to get me.

"I'm Dr. Latimer," he said, shaking my hand.

On our way to your room, he talked to me.

"The paramedics said he'd had a seizure before they arrived?"

"Yes," I confirmed.

"Has Greg ever had a seizure before?"

"No," I replied, a frown settling on my face.

"How would you describe it?"

I described your seizure as best I could.

"Well, in and off itself, one seizure is really nothing to worry about. Has Greg complained of any other problems?"

"He's been having headaches quite frequently lately," I responded. "And he had some kind of memory lapse, tonight."

Looking at my CSI vest, Dr. Latimer said, "Did he forget how to do something seemingly trivial for his job?"

With a sigh, I replied, "Yeah. He couldn't remember how to dust for fingerprints, or even what the powder and brush were called."

"Okay, I'm going to order a cat scan. We'll know more, once we get that back. Right now, why don't you go in with Greg. He's awake, but a bit groggy and confused. He may not remember much of this tomorrow. Don't worry about that, though. It's common after a grand mal seizure."

We had stopped outside your door. There must have been something on my face, because Dr. Latimer reached out and squeezed my arm reassuringly.

"We're going to do everything we can for him."

With a grateful smile, I pushed open the door to your room and went inside.

"Nicky?" your voice was still small and frightened, but now it was also groggy.

Moving to your bedside, I took your hand in mine. "Yeah, I'm here, baby!"

"Shouldn't we get back to work? Catherine will be mad that we're taking such a long break."

"She said it was okay," I try to reassure you.

"Okay," you yawn, a jaw cracking yawn, and I know you're about to conk out. "Come to bed, Nicky," your voice is heavy with sleep.

I carefully climb onto the bed, pulling you up against me. You smile in your sleep as my lips brush across your neck.

"I love you, G!"

"Love you, too, Nicky!" you mumble, then you're off in dreamland.

Several hours later, I'm awoken and told I have to move so they can take you for your cat scan.

As I move, you awaken, confusion written across your face.

"Nick? What happened?" you're sounding more like your old self again.

"They're taking you for a cat scan. I'll tell you everything when you get back. I promise!" I give you a quick kiss on the lips, then watch as your bed is wheeled away.

Sitting in the hard plastic chair, I look down at the floor between my feet and pray again.

You're brought back an hour later, and as promised, I tell you everything that happened last night.

I don't know how long it is before the doctor comes in, I think I dozed off in that hard plastic chair for a while, but I know from the look on his face that the news isn't good.

The words "brain tumor" and "inoperable" echo around in my mind.

We're holding hands – our fingers intertwined – and you're squeezing my hand so hard I can feel the edges of my wedding band digging into the skin of my finger.

The doctor explains that the only treatment options available are radiation and chemotherapy.

I finally ask the doctor the question we're both dreading, "How long?"

"From my understanding of when Greg's symptoms first started, this is a fairly fast growing tumor. With chemo and radiation, maybe nine months. Without, perhaps six months."

Now I'm squeezing your hand just as hard as you're squeezing mine.

"As the tumor continues to grow, Greg will more than likely exhibit more frequent and more severe memory lapses, as well as seizures," Dr. Latimer adds, before trailing off to allow everything to sink in.

The way you're looking at me, I know my face must be ashen. After everything that's happened to us, I never thought something like this would happen.

Looking at you, I say, "Can we have a couple days to talk about it?"

"Sure - sure. Just don't take too long. If you decide on treatment, the sooner we start, the better."

"Can I take him home?" This wasn't the place I want to talk about this. Getting you home is my only priority, right now. Catherine had made sure my truck was brought to the hospital for us. She hadn't been able to stop by, but I'd talked to her on the phone.

"I'll have the nurses draw up the papers."

"Thank you," I sigh. My eyes still locked on yours.

After all of these years, I'd grown used to your fear of me forgetting you. Now the irony was that it could literally happen the other way around.

I have to be strong for you now. I'll have time for tears later. After you've gone, I'll have all the time in the world for tears.

At home, I wrap an arm around your waist to steady you on the walk from the truck to the house.

Settling you on the couch, I go to the kitchen to make us both some soothing camomile tea.

When I go to hand you your cup, I find that your hands are shaking as they haven't in years. After setting my own cup on the coffee table, I help you take a sip of your own.

Setting it aside, I drop to the couch, and pull you up against me. You're laying on your stomach, with your head on my chest, and I've draped my legs over yours.

Tracing small circles over your back with my finger, I say, "What do you want to do, G?"

"I don't think I want treatment," you say softly. I guess you're afraid of how I'll react to that.

"Okay," is my simple response. I'm not a selfish man. I won't ask you to endure painful treatments for the possibility of a few more months. I'll take what I can get.

"What about work?" you ask me.

"We'll go talk to Catherine tomorrow. She called earlier and gave us tonight off. I - I think you should take off on disability. With - with the memory lapse, there's too much of a chance that you might get hurt, or compromise a scene or evidence."

You don't say anything for a moment, just let out a shuddering sigh, and I'm pretty sure you expected me to say that.

"Yeah, you're right," you finally say in a near whisper.

An idea occurres to me. A way I can stay home with you, yet still bring home a paycheck, because I'll be damned if I'm going to leave your side for one second of whatever time you have left.

"I'll call UNLV tomorrow, see if they still want me to teach that hair and fibers course," I say. "If they'll let me do it as an online course, I'll do it, and take a sabbatical from the lab."

You raise your head up to look at me, "You'd do that for me?" you ask tentatively.

Tenderly placing my hand on your cheek, letting my thumb trail across your beautiful lips, I manage a husky, "I intend to stay by your side from now until the end!"

Stretching up, you touch your lips to mine. Your tongue teases across my lower lip, and my mouth opens to yours. Our tongues twine and you moan, low and needy.

I surge forward to a sitting position, you straddling my hips. With another surge, I surprise myself by managing to stand from the couch, you in my arms, your legs wrapped around my waist.

It's in this instant that I realize you've lost weight. I never could have done this before. Just standing with you in my arms would have had me staggering, as you've always weighed nearly the same as me.

Carrying you down the hall, our lips still locked in an ever deepening kiss, I only stagger a little under your weight.

Laying you down across the bed, I cover your body with mine, pressing my hips into yours, feeling our mutual desire rub together.

I break our lips apart to trail kisses down your jaw to your neck. Just under your ear, I nip the skin, licking the bruising skin to ease the skin.

"I love you, G!" I murmur into your ear, my voice still husky with unshed tears. I'm sure my eyes are shimmering with them, but I refuse to let them fall. I will not spend what precious time we have left together crying.

Your hands pull my shirt out of my jeans, then move up under it, across my chest and stomach, as you sigh, "I love you so much, Nicky!"

My jeans have gotten so tight it's painful, but I won't rush this. If I could make this love making last until the end of time, I would.

I help you take your shirt off, then suck on your nipples until they're hard little buds.

Working my way farther down, I'm kissing, licking, and nipping your stomach.

You moan as I begin to fumble with the button fly of your jeans. Releasing the buttons one by one, so your hard length is exposed a little at a time. You didn't bother with underwear, it appears.

When you're finally freed of your jeans, I look from the glistening pre-cum on the head of your cock to your face. I flick my tongue out over my lips, and I feel my own hard on jump as I anticipate the taste of you.

As you watch my tongue peak out of my lips, you moan, and beg, "Nicky! Please!"

"I'm gonna lick you like a lolly pop," I murmur, licking my lips again.

You squirm and moan again, only stilling when my hand grasps your shaft. I splay my fingers so your entire shaft is engulfed, only the head exposed.

From my position kneeling between your knees, I lean forward. I drag my tongue from just under your head all the way over the slit, carefully capturing every drop.

I savor the flavor for a moment, then murmur, "Mmm... my own Greg flavored lolly pop."

Your fingers are tangled in my hair, and you're trying to coax my mouth back down to your throbbing member.

I partially oblige, teasing you with my tongue, running over every bit of skin, sliding it into your slit in search of more of your taste.

You buck your hips up, still seeking entrance to my mouth. "Nicky, can't hold out much longer. Need to come!"

I finally suck you into my mouth, my teeth grazing ever so gently over your sensitive flesh.

"Ah..." you nearly scream, as electricity shoots through you at the contact.

I suck hard, then take you as far into my mouth as possible. The vibration in the back of my throat as I hum finally sends you over the edge.

The sudden intrusion of one of my fingers into your tight entrance causes a scream of ecstacy to escape you.

Releasing your spent member with a pop, I begin to fumble with my belt and fly, while still preparing your body for my intrusion.

Finally succeeding at ridding myself of the last of my clothes, I grab the lube from my night stand and slather on a generous amount.

Pushing gently into you, I lean down and capture your lips with mine.

Rocking in and out of you with just enough force to make us both sigh, I make love to you as I don't think I ever have before.

Between kisses, I murmur, "I love you more than words can describe! You are my life! I've loved you since the first day I saw you! I'm going to miss you so much! I don't know if I can go on without you!"

It's only when you reach up and brush at my wet cheeks that I realize I'm crying.

"Without you, I would have died a long time ago," you murmur quietly. I'm not sure I was meant to hear it, as I had just reached my release, but I did.

After pulling out of you and using a few tissues to clean us up, I lay down beside you, pulling you up against me.

"What did you mean?" I ask, my lips near your ear.

You shiver. It's warm enough in here, especially with the sweat from our loving still coating our skin, so I know you're not cold.

Trying to pull away, you say, "I guess I owe you an explanation for my insecurity."

Holding you tightly against me, I reply, "Only if you want, G."

Beginning a bit haltingly, you say, "In college, and the first couple of years before I came to Vegas, there were a few guys. I guess I invest myself completely in anything I undertake, relationships included. I fell in love pretty quickly. They stayed with me for a few months, then broke it off, one even went so far as to pretend nothing had happened between us, they all forgot me."

"I'm so sorry, G!" tears are running down my face again. I don't understand how anyone could forget you!

"The -the last one was right before I came to Vegas for my interview. I'd been," you pause here, unsure if you should continue.

"You don't have to tell me," I murmur.

"Yeah, yeah, I do. You should know. I'd been planning on killing myself, after I got back home."

A shocked gasp escaped me. "What stopped you?" I suspected the answer, though.

"You," it was the simplest, yet most complex answer in the world. "When I met you, I knew I had to give you a chance. When I did, I couldn't believe you'd want me, especially after the explosion. I kept waiting for you to walk away, forget me, but you never have."

"And I never will," I reply, nuzzling my face into the back of your neck, taking in your scent, trying to ensure I'd remember it long after you're gone.

Suddenly I felt the need to be more than your life partner. I needed that paper from the state – even if it wasn't our state – that said I was your husband and you were mine.

"Let's go to California and get legally married there," I blurt out.

You push yourself closer to me, sigh in contentment and say, "Okay."

I lay away and hold you as you begin to softly snore. I'm reminded of that Aerosmith song from the movie Armageddon. If I sleep, I might miss something, and with our time together becoming more and more limited, that's just not an option for me.

My eyes finally drifted closed at some point though, because when they opened again, you were propped up on an elbow, watching me sleep.

"Hey!" I murmured, bringing my hand to your face. Tracing your cheek down to your jaw and from your jaw to your chin. I reveled in how your morning stubble felt against the pad of my finger.

"Hi!" is your soft reply, before you lean down to kiss me.

I catch the wince you try to hide as you start leaning towards me. Once you pull back from our kiss, I ask, "Headache?"

"Yeah," you confirm.

"Stay here, I'll go get you a glass of water and one of the pain pills the doctor sent you home with," I say, climbing out of bed.

After tracking down a pair of pajama bottoms, I slip them on and head to the kitchen.

Once I've drawn a glass of water and taken a pill from the bottle, I go back into the bedroom.

You're curled up on your side, knees drawn up to your chest. Your head must be hurting worse than you were letting on.

Setting down on the edge of the bed beside you, I help you sit up so you can take the pain pill.

Once you're leaning back again, I brush your hair off your forehead and place a kiss there.

"I'm going to go call the dean of the criminology department at UNLV." By our standards, we're up early. It's about three in the afternoon, so the dean should still be there.

I go into our home office to make the call, returning to the bedroom to be with you when I'm done.

Your eyes are closed, so I think you're sleeping. I quietly work on getting dressed, intending to go in the kitchen and fix us an early breakfast.

"Did you get hold of the dean?" you ask, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.

Turning to look at you, I see you watching me through one partially open eye lid. A sheepish smile spreads over your face, and you murmur, "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay. The dean was ecstatic to have me there in any capacity. He's going to get the course set up."

"That's great!" you reply quietly.

"You hungry?" I ask, as your eye closes again.

"Not really, but fix something and I'll try to eat."

"I'll call Cath in a couple hours, let her know we need to talk to her."

"Okay," you reply drowsily. The pain pill must finally be starting to take effect. Lines across your forehead that I hadn't really noticed before are smoothing out as your level of pain decreases.

Later that night, at the lab, we walk in holding hands, though I think it was more along the lines of desperately clinging to each other.

Lab techs are watching us as we walk past. By now everyone knows we're together, but we never flaunt it like this at the lab. I'm sure they know something's up.

Catherine's waiting in her office. She already knows we won't be staying.

She looks up at us as we walk in, and I close the door. Her eyes go from our interlaced fingers to our faces. She knows something serious has happened. I'm sure she suspects it has something to do with your collapse the other night.

"Nicky? Greg?" she asks. There's dread in her voice.

I pull Catherine's visitor chairs so they're closer together, then we both sit. I look at you, and you give me a slight nod. You want me to tell her.

"Cath, Greg has a brain tumor. Inoperable."

Letting out a gasp, she covers her mouth with one hand, eyes brimming with tears. "No!"

A sad smile settles on your face, "I can't work anymore, Cath."

"How long?" she asks, and I know she's not asking how long until you can work again.

"A few months, at most," I reply.

A tear slides down her cheek, and her voice is thick with tears as she says, "If you need anything, please call." She's looking at me, and I think she knows I won't be back, either.

"I'd like to take a sabbatical. UNLV is going to let me teach an online course," I say.

"Of course, Nicky! I'll get the paperwork drawn up."

"Also, we're going to California to get legally married. We'd like you to come with us, represent all our friends here at the lab," I tell her.

"I - I'm sorry, there's no way I'll be able to get away. Perhaps Sara..."

I know she's right, of course. She's just lost two more CSIs, and she's the shift supervisor. She has to be here. "It's okay. We'll go ask Sara, then."

Sara agrees on the condition that she can call Grissom. Grissom insists on flying to California from France for the ceremony. He's watched us both grow as CSIs and considers us sons. I'm sure he's told Sara to call him, once... I can't finish that thought right now.

We leave a few days before the ceremony. I've convinced you that you should see your parents, since we'll be in the same general area, anyway.

You have your doubts about their reaction to you showing up unannounced and most definitely uninvited, but I think they have a right to know you're dying. Perhaps they'll put aside their prejudices.

When you came out to them – before we were together – they disowned you, wrote you out of the will, the whole nine yards. They forgot about you.

Now we're standing on their doorstep. You wanted me to wait in the car, but I refused to let you do this alone.

Pressing the button for the doorbell, we wait for a few minutes.

The door opens, and a woman – whom you bear a striking resemblance to – opens the door. She looks at you warily, begins to close the door.

"Momma?" your voice is small and childlike, scared, unsure.

A sob escapes her, but she says, "I don't have any children."

"Please, Momma! I need you!" The stress must have been too great, because you double over, hands gripping the sides of your head. A strangled cry of pain escapes your lips.

Your mother's eyes travel to me for the first time, as I gather you to me. I turn you back toward the car, planning to drive you to the motel.

A quiet, "Wait!" reaches my ears, and I turn us back toward the woman who gave you life.

"Please, bring him in."

I guide you into the house, your mom directing us into a large, well decorated livingroom.

I lay you down on the couch, pulling your shoes off so they won't deposit any dirt on the fabric.

"Could I have a glass of water for Greg?" I ask, reaching into my pocket for your pain pills.

Your mother had been standing uncertainly by the entry to the livingroom. Now she says, "Of course," and retreats through another door.

When she comes back, she's carrying a glass of ice water. She hands it to me, then takes a few steps back.

I can't believe she can watch her only child in such pain and just stand there!

Putting a damper on my emotions, for your sake, I help you take your pill, then sit down on the end of the couch, pulling your feet onto my lap.

Looking up at your mom, my voice full of bitterness, I say, "Greg's dying. He has a brain tumor."

Your mom finally reacts. She staggers, nearly falls down. She has to clutch at the back of an armchair to avoid falling down. Once she regains control, she finally approaches you.

Standing over you – you've had your eyes squeezed shut this entire time, so I don't know if you're aware of what's going on – she reaches out with a tentative hand and touches your cheek.

You open your eyes, and I can tell it's taking you a moment to get them to focus. Finally, you're looking up into your mom's face. "Momma?"

I guess that little kid voice finally broke something in her, because she sat on the edge of the couch and pulled you into her arms.

She's sobbing, apologizing for the way you've been treated.

When she finally pulls away from you, she turns toward me. She looks between the two of us, notices the gold band on my left hand where it's resting on your foot.

"Is this..." she doesn't finish the question, unsure or unwilling, I'm not sure which.

"This is Nick, Momma. My life partner, and soon-to-be legal husband – at least in California," a little of your sarcastic personality slips through, so your pain pill must be taking effect.

You look around for the first time. "Where's dad?" you ask, an edge to your voice.

Your mom gives you an odd look, before she says, "He died of a heart attack ten years ago."

"Ten years?" you ask in disbelief. "And in all that time, you never thought to..."

Your mom interrupts you, wailing, "I thought about it all the time, but your father had drilled into me not even to mention your name." She choked on a sob, "He burned all of your baby pictures! Every single picture of you, he burned!"

I recoiled as if slapped. Even my own parents had eventually come round when I came out to them. We'd been to the ranch a few times, and they hadn't taken measures as extreme as your father had. My baby pictures were still scattered among my siblings' around the house – embarrassingly enough.

Your mom attended our wedding ceremony, along with Sara, Grissom, and my parents. Cisco and my mom flew out for the day, unable to get any more time off.

We spent a few days with your mom, but she felt she had no right to be part of your life anymore, so she insisted we spend your last few months wrapped up in each other.

That's what we did, too.

You had good days and bad days.

While you were still mobile, we spent a lot of time just strolling down the strip, hand in hand. It was something we'd never taken the time for before. We did, now.

On bad days, we lazed around the house. You would cuddle up to me while I conducted my class on my laptop.

If your day wasn't too bad, we'd spend the day in bed, making love.

Towards the end, it became increasingly difficult for you to remember things, and you'd panic easily. You never once forgot me, though.

Your headaches never truly seemed to go away, and the pain pills did almost nothing to ease them.

The night you died, we had fallen asleep on the couch with the TV on. You woke me up with a kiss, completely lucid and pain free for the first time in ages, and my heart fell. I knew you would be gone soon.

I think you knew it, too.

Climbing off of me, you pulled me up and lead me to the bedroom.

Pulling me down beside you, you wrapped your arms around my waist and rested your head against my chest.

"I love you, Nicky!" you say quietly.

"I love you, too, G," I respond, fighting the tears that want to fall.

"I want you to know, I'm not afraid to die," you say, pulling back far enough to look me in the eye.

"Why's that?" I ask. It dawns on me that your breathing has gotten ragged. You're having difficulty drawing in enough air.

You lay your cheek against my chest again, "Because I know you'll remember me!" you say in a near whisper.

I keep waiting for you to draw in another breath, but it doesn't happen. The tears come now. I let them pour forth. You're gone. I squeeze your lifeless body to me and bawl.

I finally whisper quietly, "I could _never_ forget you, G!"

A/N: I think this is it. I have an idea for another chapter, but I'm not sure I should add it. I think this is the perfect spot to end this story. Let me know what you think.


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